


Be My Breath (Nothing I Wouldn’t Give)

by alasse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasse/pseuds/alasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Surfacing from an episode comes in fits and starts.</i>
</p>
<p> <i>Like a deep breath after almost drowning.</i></p>
<p>Post 512 - Ian surfaces, and gets some help. And he figures out that even if he's not perfect, he and Mickey can figure it out together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Breath (Nothing I Wouldn’t Give)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Brand New

__

So take me out tonight.  
This ship of fools I'm on will sink.  
I'm my own stone around my neck.  
Be my breath, there's nothing I wouldn't give.

To save my life tonight.  
This ship of fools I'm on will sink  
I'm my own stone around my neck  
Be my breath, there's nothing I wouldn't give.  
\- Millstone, Brand New

 

Surfacing from an episode comes in fits and starts.

Like a deep breath after almost drowning.

It’s a good metaphor, drowning. Because it’s a bit what it feels like, when he’s down, and even when he’s up. Nobody really told him that learning to deal with this would be like learning how to tread water in the middle of the fucking ocean. They talked about lithium and routines and discipline, rapid-cycling and life-long and… 

… and Ian couldn’t stop thinking about Monica cleaning the house and taking him to a club and dancing all night long and then lying down under the stairs and then slitting her wrists, and being her son and feeling like a piece of paper flying apart in a hurricane, feeling like driftwood in a waterfall, and that’s what it means for him. 

Every terrible metaphor they could ever come up with for her, for life with her, for being born from her. That’s him.

He takes the fucking pills, he flushes them away. He surfaces. He punches the person he loves most in the entire fucking world and he feels again and it’s going okay and then it isn’t. He goes down again. He flies apart. 

He takes Mickey down with him.

He doesn’t know anymore if he’s the one drowning, or if he’s the ocean drowning everyone else.

+

Lip is the one who calls him. Ned, Lloyd, whatever he’s going by nowadays. Funny how Lishmans can’t seem to stick to one fucking name. Funny how they can shed the weight of their names, their identities, leave them behind and surface again, just fine. If only it were ever that easy for the Gallaghers.

Ian’s barely eighteen, but he’d give a lot to start over. No more Gallagher, no more Ian, no more Firecrotch… no longer the son of a crazy woman and a man who never claimed him, nobody’s brother, and nobody’s heartbreak. 

Anyway, he has no idea Lip’s called him until the fucker shows up with Ned to their room, like it’s totally normal, and before he can say a word – stop, what the fuck, go the fuck away – Lip’s already running at the mouth.

“See? He – he can’t do this at the clinic, man. They don’t have time for this shit, to deal with adjusting the meds, to give him any sort of real therapy. They just throw lithium at him and hope that it sticks, Prozac so he doesn’t kill himself never mind that some people say it makes the rapid-cycling worse…” Lip trails off, glances somewhat apologetically at Ian, but eventually keeps going. “Just. You owe him this. You owe him _something_. A clinical trial at Northwestern or in the hospital you’re working now, one of your buddies… fuck. Anything.”

If Ian had the energy, if he could muster his legs and his arms and every cell in his body that seems to be falling apart inside him, he’d fly at Lip, he’d punch him and curse him like he’s done so many times before, over so many other things. How the fuck dare he? How dare he drag fucking _Ned_ of all people, to see Ian like he’s a freak-show to be gawked over, or worse, something broken to be pitied?

But he just stares at Ned, face blank. 

For his part, Ned rolls his lips into his mouth, looks at Ian for a long while. For the first time since they met, there’s nothing sleazy or evaluating about it, nothing heavy – Ian guesses this is him staring like a doctor, rather than a guy looking for a boy to fuck him. 

“Yeah. Yes, of course. One of my friends, he works at the Asher Center in Northwestern –“ Ned stops, swallows, and it’s the first indication that this is a little uncomfortable for him, for all of them. Or maybe he’s worried. Who the fuck knows. “I’ll call him, get it set up.”

Lip nods, almost convulsively. “Thanks. Thanks, man.”

And that’s how Ian gets some real help. 

Or, rather, how he learns to tread water.

+

It starts by leaving again, but not running away.

They say he needs at least a couple of months of immersive therapy, that he needs to break a bunch of bad habits and learn some good ones in an environment that doesn’t make his every effort futile.

Which is a nice way to say that the Southside is kind of toxic and his family is kind of a mess, Ian guesses. He doesn’t disagree, exactly, but he hates it all the same because what it means is that he won’t get to see Mickey for a while. 

Not that he was actually, you know, _seeing_ Mickey, not after the break-up and Sammi and the gun, but Ian would jog past his house, lurk like an idiot for a glimpse of him and Yev at the park, trail a few streets behind him when he went to work at that new garage that opened up and didn’t mind his reputation or his record.

He knows it was weird and invasive, especially after he was the one who broke them up, but. But he needed to know Mickey was okay, that he existed in this world, even if Ian couldn’t have him right now.

And now he won’t even get that much.

Maybe he deserves it. 

Maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe it’s not a matter of deserving anything – it’s just genetic lottery, dumb bad luck, a set of crossed wires. Maybe he can learn enough good habits to have Mickey again, and keep him. 

Maybe.

Treatment at the center is a little weird. It’s not like when he was locked up after the mess with Yev, he doesn’t feel like a prisoner in a nut-house. It’s more like being a very, very controlled guest, and it’s a bit like being back at school and back at ROTC – learning about his illness, about adequate diets and understanding warning sings and exercising every day, sprinkled with drugs and tests and more drugs. 

Apparently finding the right cocktail is kind of like Russian roulette. Apparently he’ll always need to keep finding the right one, because of course this thing can’t be easy, but nobody treats him like a walking time-bomb here – they just accept that this is the way it goes.

After a while, it feels like maybe he can manage this. Like it’s not a choice between being a zombie and being a psycho.

“Chronic illnesses are what they are, Ian,” Dr. Cartwright tells him. “Mental ones more so. If you resist the impulse to pity yourself, or worse, to be angry at yourself for something you can’t help – if you learn to keep going, keep taking your pills and doing your part, and cutting yourself some slack when it goes bad, I promise you, you’ll get a handle on this. And that’s all anyone can ask of you. That’s all you can ask of yourself.”

It isn’t easy, but it doesn’t feel impossible.

+

He goes back home.

Fiona and Debbie flutter around him, try to feed him all the time, Carl asks as many inappropriate questions as ever, and Lip texts him every couple of hours. Liam just hugs him a lot.

It’s not bad, but it feels like trying to put on one of Lip’s t-shirts: familiar, but a little too tight to be comfortable. Except for Liam’s hugs – they’re always awesome. 

When he tells Dr. Cartwright about it, he gets no pity. “You’re bi-polar, Ian, not an idiot. Far from it. If you want to live on your own, make it happen. Keep up your treatment and get a job, get your GED… whatever it takes. It’s on you.”

And it’s nothing that Fiona didn’t tell him a while ago, or that Lip didn’t say the second he picked up Ian at the center, but it finally sticks.

He starts by getting a job back at Patsy’s Pies because Sean is a sucker for all Gallaghers with a sob-story, apparently, and it sucks as much as it did the first time, but at least this time around he doesn’t feel the urge to grill his own hand. Which is progress, he guesses. 

He finds all of Fiona’s old books and incorporates studying into his daily routine, and it’s good he has something to focus on, because fuck, he misses Mickey. 

The urge to just go see him, beg for forgiveness, beg for anything, really, itches under his skin constantly. But he owes it to himself, to Mickey, and to what they could be together to wait until he’s more settled.

Knowing that doesn’t make the waiting any easier, though.

+

The day Ian takes his GED he doesn’t tell anyone, because he doesn’t want it to be a big deal in case he doesn’t pass and has to do it all over again or whatever.

Fiona finds out anyway, god knows how – Lip, probably, that asshole almost always knows everything Ian does somehow – and when he’s leaving the center he finds all his brothers and sisters waiting with ridiculous smiles on their faces.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?”

“Just waiting on you to go to lunch, man, no big deal,” Lip replies, but he can’t keep the shit-eating grin down.

Ian rolls his eyes. “It’s just a stupid test, guys. I don’t even know if I passed.”

“Well, let us take you to lunch anyway,” Fiona says, slipping her arm through his and leading him toward the street. “It’s been a while since we’ve all sat down together and ate.”

Ian still acts kind of reluctant, but once they’re all sitting down at a diner – not Patsy’s Pies, thank god – he’s actually grateful. It really _has_ been a while, and even though they can drive him a little crazy, he loves his brothers and sisters. Loves that they have his back, that they’re ready to celebrate every little thing any of them do, ‘cause life with Frank and Monica would’ve been too damn horrible otherwise. 

It’s feels like a long fucking time since he’s been clear-headed enough to appreciate this, shooting the shit with Lip and having Fiona give him half of her mashed potatoes and Debbie and Carl arguing over the best way to grip a butterfly knife and Liam grinning at them all.

He smiles, and eats his meat-loaf.

+

He’s been out of the treatment center for almost two months and things are going well enough – he’s exercising every day, taking his pills, writing down how he’s feeling, working, and he’s only broken his promise to himself and asked Carl to check on Mickey twice. Well, three times. Maybe four, but whatever, not the point.

The point is he’s doing relatively okay, and maybe other people think so, too, because Kev shows up at the house one night and offers him a job at the Alibi.

“Like, not full time or whatever, but maybe three or four shifts a week? In the afternoon or at night, whatever works best with your job at the diner.”

“Are you… are you sure, Kev?” Ian asks. 

“Yeah, man. You already turned eighteen, right? V told me you were saving up to get your own place, figured you could use some extra cash. And, uh – from what Lip told me, you got some bartending experience last winter? When you were –“ Kev pauses, clearly trying to find a way to put it, but then shrugs. “- when you ran away from the army or whatever.”

“I mean. Yeah, I guess I did,” Ian nods. “But… you trust me? I’m, you know.”

And Kev grins. “Ian, man, you might be a little crazy or whatever, but I still trust you working at my bar more than any of your family. Lip would start running a side-scam within a second and Fiona would probably figure out a way to get into some sort of romantic tangle with Kermit. But, uh, Don’t tell them I said that.”

Ian laughs a little. “I won’t. Uh… thank you, Kev. I’d really like that.”

And that’s how he starts working at the Alibi four times a week, in the afternoons. It gives him a little more Frank exposure than he’d like, but it also keeps him from staying in his head too much, keeps him active, and the extra money is good, obviously.

+

It’s a Wednesday, when it finally happens.

He’s at the Alibi, wiping down the counter, and Debbie shows up, sits in a stool in front of him and just stares expectantly.

“Um. Hi, Debs. Get you anything?”

“No.”

“Okay… d’you need anything, then?”

Debbie takes a deep breath, puts on the stern face that’s always made her look older than her years since she was about six and lecturing them all about Froot Loops having too many chemicals. “Yes. I need to know why you still haven’t gone to see Mickey.”

Ian sets down the cloth in his hand, stares at the counter for a second.

“I was waiting, I _am_ waiting until – until I can see him and not screw it up,” is what he finally says, looking back up at Debbie.

She doesn’t seem particularly impressed by his answer.

“So, what? You’re just going to send Carl over to spy on him until you decide that you’re ready to see him?”

Ian opens his mouth, closes it. It sounds ridiculous, out loud.

“That’s stupid, Ian,” Debbie says, point blank. “And it’s also selfish. You shouldn’t be the only one deciding this, ‘cause not screwing it up is about both of you. And if it’s about the bi-polar thing…” she trails off, mouth twisting a little.

“I know,” Ian says. “About as good as it gets, for now.”

“Yeah,” Debbie agrees. “So what are you waiting for, really?”

Ian sighs, stares down at his hands. “I guess it’s easier to wait, ‘cause that way I don’t know, you know? If he’ll take me back, if he’ll punch me in the face. I can just… hope.”

Debbie doesn’t say much more after that, and she eventually leaves to meet up with her boyfriend, but the conversation keeps going round and round Ian’s head.

It is probably selfish, waiting. He means well, yeah, but it’s also fear that’s holding him back, and he owes Mickey better than that. He owes himself better than that.

So he decides to go over to the Milkovich house after his shift.

+

Ian knocks on Mickey’s door and waits, fists clenched at his side to keep his hands from shaking. After what feels like an eternity but can’t really be any longer than a couple of minutes, the door opens.

“Ian?”

And, shit, it shouldn’t make his heart race like this, someone saying his name. But it’s _Mickey_ , and he’s not calling him Gallagher or Firecrotch or fuck you. It’s gotta mean something.

“Hey, Mick.”

Mickey looks him up and down, a furrow between his eyebrows betraying some worry. “You’re back. You’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m – better. But, uh, you noticed I was gone?” Ian asks, confused. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You mean did I notice when your six-foot-whatever red-headed ass stopped following me everywhere like a fucking weirdo? Yes, of course I fucking noticed you were gone. I thought you’d pulled a runner again but your family seemed chill about it, and Debbie finally told me where you’d gone.”

Ian winces. He had no clue he’d been that obvious following Mickey, and he guesses in retrospect it had been pretty stupid not to tell him where we was going, break up or not.

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize, I mean. I should’ve…” Ian stops, takes a deep breath. He needs to do this right. “I – I was wondering if you had a little time to talk.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a while, and Ian thinks he’s going to say no. 

But Mickey steps back, waves him in. Ian steps cautiously inside, but the house seems to be empty of anyone but them. It’s a relief – he doesn’t really want an audience for this. 

“So, uh. You wanted to talk?”

Mickey’s question snaps Ian out of his reflection.

“Yeah,” Ian nods. “I – first of all, I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For – for a lot of things, really, but most of all for making you feel that you weren’t important to me, the way I broke things off. And, um. For following you around, and then not telling you I was leaving.”

“Ian, you don’t gotta apologize…” Mickey starts, rubbing a hand down his face.

“No, I do,” Ian interrupts. “I mean, yeah, I was going through a rough time and kind of barely out of an episode, and I – I think I just wanted you to be away from the mess that I felt like. I wanted to stop hurting you, and hurting me. But I went about it so badly, and I’m sorry.”

Mickey just looks at him for a minute, before quietly saying, “Thank you. I – you did hurt me. But I get it. I mean, it took me a while, but I get it. In your own fucked-up Ian way, you were trying to protect me.”

“I – yeah,” Ian admits.

“That I get it doesn’t mean I don’t think it was fucking stupid, though,” Mickey says, raising his eyebrows. “You acted like a fucking dick. And not in the fun way.”

Ian chuckles wetly. “I know I did. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, I fucking forgive you, you asshole.” 

Ian smiles, and Mickey gives him that maddening almost-smile back, and, fuck. Ian steps closer, runs a nervous hand through his hair. Mickey just looks at him, seemingly ready for whatever else Ian wants to say.

So he goes for it.

“I also wanted to say – because I didn’t, last time, and because I did, and I do – I love you, Mick.”

Mickey’s eyes widen a bit, like he didn’t expect it, like he didn’t know it, and Ian hates that, hates that Mickey being sure Ian loves him isn’t a truth he’s as certain of as the sun rising, but maybe they can get there. 

“I – I know it’s a little late and obviously, like, I don’t expect that you want to get back together with me, but I just wanted you to know,” Ian pauses, but Mickey doesn’t react beyond a small twitch in his hand. So Ian keeps going because if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will. “And I wanted to tell you that I’m on meds that are helping me for real this time, I got my GED, and I’m working and I’m saving up to move out on my own – and I wanted to thank you, Mick, ‘cause I wouldn’t have gotten here without you, I really –“

He’s interrupted by Mickey kissing him, and fuck.

Fuck. It feels like he doesn’t deserve it, like he hasn’t earned it. But Ian’ll take it, because he’ll take anything Mickey gives him, he always has. 

The kiss is like coming home and like flying away and it’s everything he’s wanted since he was fifteen fucking years old, and what he wants until he’s one-hundred and fifteen. It kills him to pull back, but he has to, because he has to warn Mickey, he needs them to be on the same page for once.

“I – I’m okay now, but I can’t promise I always will be,” he gets out, speaking quickly. “Like, at some point the drugs won’t work and I’ll have to take new ones and I’ll be a fucking mess, and I’ll fuck up, probably. Almost definitely.”

Mickey shakes his head, and leans his forehead against Ian’s. “I know all that, asshole. I don’t need you to be okay always. I just – I just need you to be here, yeah? I need you to stay, for once.”

Ian smile a little, closes his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that,” he whispers.

Maybe they can tread water together and learn to have this, to have each other.

Ian opens his eyes, breathes in, out.

“I can do that.”


End file.
